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<title>peter nureyev gets therapy (but not really) by graveyardroses</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27611099">peter nureyev gets therapy (but not really)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/graveyardroses/pseuds/graveyardroses'>graveyardroses</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Penumbra Podcast</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A character study of sorts, Angst, Other, Short, around 1k, ficlet? does this count as a ficlet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:27:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>926</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27611099</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/graveyardroses/pseuds/graveyardroses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A draft of a letter to a therapist's office somewhere in Mars, as a part of a questionnaire sent with health forms. It does not end up being sent. Content warnings: angst. lots of angst, mistrust, fear of betrayal. an overwhelming urge to run away.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel (Mentioned)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>peter nureyev gets therapy (but not really)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>[This is what was salvaged from the trash can of the Carte Blanche. Transcribed and rewritten by Buddy Aurinko, without the knowledge of the original writer. It is a letter intended for a therapist’s office located back on mars. Transcription notes end.]</span>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I do not know when it started. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe it’s something in the veins. Something rooted deeply into me, or something passed down from a father, a parent, from people without names. Either way, does it really matter? They are gone. I don’t know them. I never have. Or perhaps it comes from something else. Something deeper. I look back, because it’s late, and I have nothing left to lose. I look back, and perhaps I shouldn’t have. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a guitar, somewhere, some time ago. I held it and my hands fit between the strings like a home that outgrew me long ago. I fit into the shape of the guitar, arm around the neck, wrist hovering over the bridge, and in my grasp I thought I was sixteen. I kicked in the light panel and ran through an alleyway in the darkened commotion, and it was only when I sat on the stairs of someone’s fire escape that I understood I’d forgotten how to play. I pressed my fingers into the shape of the chords but they came out dull and muted. I could not remember how to play them. I could not remember the words to the song and when I spoke in brahmese the words fell from my lips like I was a foreigner speaking a stranger’s tongue. I sat there, frantically searching for the notes, digging through my memory to the sheets of tones and harmonics but I could not find it. I dug my hands into the dirt because they burned on the top of the strings. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I have not touched a guitar since. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dear,” Juno says in a voice that is supposed to be kind, “we need to talk.” The ballroom is filled with figures that dance to a single beat. One step after another, it is as if they’re coordinated. There are dresses of silver and gold, shirts of faded charcoal. In this memory, I am here, but I am not really here. I am me, but I am not really me, because I have to know who I am in order to recognize it. The room is filled with voices, and the clearest one belongs to Nova  Zolatovna. She speaks, unafraid that others will hear. I speak, hesitant, because I do not want to leave. My mind is screaming. The threads and sinews of my entire being are begging me to run, to wipe away the past - new name, new face, new Peter. But however terrifying it is to remain, I wanted to. So I did the only thing I knew how to do, and knew how to do well. I lied, and a narrative spiraled out that was convincing enough to shake her. And then: the cold weight of jewels in my hands. “swear you’ll find your way back to me,” she says. I lie because it is easy, and I lie because I want to stay. Not there, in the ballroom with drunk aristocrats and shining floors, but in the carte blanche. I want to stay with the corridors and sliding doors, with the warmth of a cot in a room bearing a name that is not quite mine, with - and however much I tell myself not everything is permanent - Juno. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I am not sure if I still want to, now. There are little moments where I lie without meaning to. Where they slip out, as a mistake, and most of the time, I correct them. I take them and put them back in my throat. I apologize. And then, there’s the feeling. The need to run, the need to leave everything behind and escape through the window, to drop off on some faraway planet and have nothing to root me down to a home that may harm me. Because I can’t - I can’t handle that anymore. Not now. Not again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I need to delete this letter, to scratch out the words, to set it on fire and scatter the ashes in a garbage can. I need to break my pen with the silver nib, to crack it until the ink spills out like an open wound. I need to leave, my hands tell me, I need to leave. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It would be so simple, so easy. I would take my things and pack them away. I would slip out the airlock on a planet, somewhere, at some time, because it’s only a matter of time before they all become bitter and cold and I realize I was getting too comfortable in the first place, a matter of time before they lie and trick and - </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No. This is not right. I trust Juno. I trust rita. I trust them all, in some way. And this might be my downfall, but it might just be kind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So I am writing this. I am sending it in with the forms. I am writing what is true and holding my hand steady so I do not cross anything out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sincerely, </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Peter. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>[The last name is difficult to transcribe, and therefore is not written in this document. Some letters are crossed out, and it is scrawled messily in a different pen. It is assumed that the last name begins with a G, but it could just have easily been a C. Transcription notes end here, along with the letter.]</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
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